


Pray To Never See The Desert Again

by AlmesivaMoonshadow



Category: Far Cry 5
Genre: Angst, Angst and Tragedy, Best Friends, Biblical References, Body Horror, Cannibalism, Cannibalistic Thoughts, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Character Death, Childhood Trauma, Classical References, Dehydration, Desert, Euthanasia, Friendship, Gulf War, Hallucinations, Heavy Angst, Historical References, Implied Relationships, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Torture, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, Literary References & Allusions, Male Friendship, Mercy Killing, Middle-Eastern Conflict, Movie Reference, Mutilation, Night Terrors, Other, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Cult Jacob, Prequelverse, Psychological Trauma, Sacrifice, Self-Cannibalism, Self-Discovery, Self-Mutilation, Seven Pillars Of Wisdom, Soldiers, Starvation, T.E. Lawrence - Freeform, Wolves, Young Jacob Seed, lawrence of arabia - Freeform, modern warfare - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-09
Updated: 2018-09-09
Packaged: 2019-07-10 07:17:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15944444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlmesivaMoonshadow/pseuds/AlmesivaMoonshadow
Summary: Missing in action and presumed dead or captured, after day sixth, chased by wolves and haunted by what he's done, Jacob Seed emerges out of the embrace of the crimson dunes like a prophet of old - chastised in blood, crowned by the sun and clad in a new sense of purpose, but hardly the same mortal man he was before.





	Pray To Never See The Desert Again

_-"No Arab loves the desert._  
_We love water and green trees._  
_There is nothing in the desert and no man needs nothing."-_

(Prince Fiesal, Lawrence of Arabia)

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

**1990-1991.**

Somewhere on the front-lines between Iran-Afghanistan, During the Gulf War.

 

 

❂

 

 

Only two kinds of creatures get fun in the desert; Bedouins and Gods.  
For all others, it's a burning, fiery furnace - so sayeth an old quote from Lawrence of Arabia.  
Jacob recalled the movies' lines even now, in deep, extremely fitting irony as he pushed his wobbling to carry him on.  
200 miles from nowhere, uncertain where they were or how to get out of it all, he mused - he was neither Bedouin nor God.  
He was just someone knee-deep in shit with another idiot equally knee-deep in shit, hoping to get out of this predicament alive.  
Miller, a fellow in his regiment who was walking ahead of him, leading what he presumed to be the way, a mere blur on the horizon.

 

 

 

 

The mirage of the fatamorgana blurring the line between the skyline and the infinite redness of the soil.

They most certainly weren't in Georgia anymore.

 

 

 

 

It was funny - well, not funny as much as again, deeply cynical, that he enlisted in order to escape all the fuckery happening back home only to stumble, somehow, into even more fuckery abroad in the process - seemed like he couldn't outrun his problems without running into them again, in another form, with another name somewhere else along the way - when Jacob joined the military, though he couldn't deny that part of him did it because he most sincerely wanted to die. Sure, there was patriotism, and the love for one's country, and idealism, and willingness to fight, the blow-off some steam and get rid of all these pent-up anger and frustration by killing anything and everything in sight and give himself a sense of purpose, no matter how grizzly and bleak it might've been, and the fact that he didn't have a family to return to anymore - but above all else, he wanted to die. Wanted to get caught in some crossfire, shot and just shipped the fuck off. That reason was like the white static in the back of his head almost constantly, whether he liked it or not. Haunting him. He wanted to die for a long time now. Every since he was a child, and in an odd sense of things moving and whirling back and forth like the sand beneath his boot-heel, his ingrained wish seemed very probable and near when it comes to coming true and becoming a reality in every sense of the way. Food rations were next to none. Water was short. The heat was intense and near unbearable, like traversing a sizzling anvil. Day fourth. No base camp or sign of highways or roads in sight. He'd never imagine he'd go like this though - so far from home, in this desolate, remote place - no way to transfer his carcass back home and give him a decent soldier's funeral once he collapses on the dunes and lets the winds bury his body forever. Him and Miller both. Alert Joseph and John about his demise, wherever they were. Whatever they were doing.

 

 

 

 

The two things that kept him going.

His brothers - even the very idea of them.

And idea and a set of bad memories was all he had.

John was taken and adopted by some perfumed, rich pricks and Joseph?

Maybe Joseph was staring at the same sun he was right now - on the other side of planet earth.

 

 

 

 

Miller was limping at this point, stumbling about like a wounded gazelle, gripping his chest for air - humid, heavy and searing - like attempting to draw oxygen out of a burning kettle pot - an honest fellow, but hardly as endurant - caught in a shootout they ran, got separated and ended here, of all places, pushed ever deeper towards the ends of the world - possibly the only friend he's made in years, decades, actually - back in Juvenile detention, his therapists concluded, after copious amount of research, tests and chats with him that he had anti-social tendencies, PTSD, a bipolar disorder and a heavy leaning towards sociopathy and self-harm and suicide after he burned down their foster parents home - nobody judged those assholes for working them like literal slaves on their farm for personal petty profit and the chance to abuse those weaker then themselves, yet they judged him for retaliating, like what he did was so damn abnormal considering their circumstances - if he could encounter them now, at this age, he would've made the settling of the score even steeper - Jacob would've cut their throats, let them bleed out slowly, keep them alive to prolong the suffering as much as he possibly could and then he'd feast on them like the animals that they are, while they're still awake enough to witness him do it - limb by limb, bit by bit. Intrusive thoughts overtaking him against his better judgement, he realized there and then that he hasn't eaten in days and the painful rumble of his entrails were possibly the only reminder he had that he was barely clinging unto to life, through his hatred, bitterness and spite alone, his mouth practically watering. The Bible always spoke of prophets crossing the desert to reach some sort of epiphany and higher enlightenment or state of consciousness, Moses and Mohammad alike - but the holy scriptures never described the act as this gruesome, soul-killing or near impossible to achieve. They certainly weren't being chased by a pack of bloodthirsty predators along the way, that much was certain.

 

 

 

 

Miller nearly collapsed, clearly no prophet out to part the Red Sea and walk across the Sinai himself.

 

 

 

 

_-"Jacob, I can't. Can't. It's over. We're done. Please. The wolves. They're coming.-"-_

 

 

 

 

He croaked, his tone dry, cracking around the edges.  
His lips in bleeding, tattered wounds.  
Mumbling only barely coherent, desperate lines.  
Face ashy and white, covered in shimmering sand-dust.  
Barely propelling him up when Jacob reached him to help him catch balance.  
He was slowly giving up, clearly, skin reddened and burnt up from the merciless white orb up above.  
At this point, even the sweat of his body was drying up and leaving nothing but the putrid odor of decay.  
Jacob loved him - he served as a substitute for the bond of family and brotherhood he was lacking, he knew that.  
And now, here he was, his stare vacant and haunted, looking like he was shell-shocked to the point beyond any recovery.  
Frantically looking for the source of the distant howling that has been at the recipe of their feet for days now.

 

 

 

The beasts caught their scent - they were after their easy, weakened, cornered meal-ticket - nature takes what nature wants.

 

 

 

_-"You won't die. Don't you know that nothing is written? Nothing is written unless we ourselves write it."-_

 

 

 

Jacob smiled at him and caressed his face for ease - trying to comfort him with empty words as he pushed him back up.

He was many things, sure, but he wasn't the type to let a brother needlessly wallow in despair under his watch.

Even if it had to be done with the same old movies quotes he knew Miller disdainfully scoffed at every time.

 

 

 

_-"Now's not the time for you to quote that stupid movie of yours, Seed."-_

 

 

 

 

Miller coughed, managing to smile bitterly and he straight himself up with a groan and drifted on, hating Jacob's favorite four-hour long vintage war-movie epic with an intermission in-between - the star of Hollywood's golden era in the 60's - they were instructed by their commanding officers it to watch and read T.E. Lawrence's book, the Seven Pillars of Wisdom as an instruction manual of sorts on the subject of historical desert guerilla warfare on the down-low to help them strategize and blend in with terrain better, but it never prepared him for this particular moment. The thoughts crossing his mind. After day five and day six and a feverish, restless night spent under an open sky, shivering and shaking from the deathly, sudden cold and fear of a possible attack out on the open plains by the pack of wolves pursuing them and all Jacob being able to think about being John and Joseph back home. Really, all these years in foreign lands, deployed from one base to another led down to a sort of thirst - a hunger, both figurative and now, literal. He wanted to see them again. Find them, with whatever limited means he had. He wanted them together. Reunited. Side by side, as it was always meant to be. The people at the social services always said they were dangerous together and as such were best separated into different families, but even as such - Jacob wanted them in one place. Repaired the same way they were broken apart. Glue backed together, like so many shattered pieces. Reason why he let Miller walk in front of his this past week and a half. He planned to do it from the back, where he wouldn't see the blow coming. Would hurt less that way. Would've frightened him less. Would at least spare him through the suffering of dying from starvation, severe sunburns and dehydration. By the looks of their rations, only one of them was going to make it. A primal need inside of Jacob convinced him it should be him.

 

 

 

He hated himself for it beyond any word used to describe it.

Almost tempted to feast on the blackened scabs of his burnt body instead.

To spare Miller and pull himself apart for the tasting instead - cut his own limbs off.

Reminding himself it was his limbs saved Joseph from beatings, John from all the harassment.

If it wasn't for his hands to strike back at all the multiple parents they had over they year -

 

 

 

He dreaded to imagine what would've happened to them - he needed those.

 

 

 

His brothers needed those.

 

 

 

_-"Only you -"-_

 

 

Miller started slowly humming a song by The Platters they mutually liked and had the tendency to listen to during long drives from base-camp to base-camp on their downtime from duty - the short hours of respite and genuine, legitimate camaraderie Jacob experienced out here and his life in general - clearly feverish and at the end of his strengths, stumbling around and his thinning legs wobbly and barely capable of keeping his bent upper body up, their water containers only a few drops apart from complete emptiness, and even as such would probably fail to help him in the condition he was in at this point, with sunken cheeks and a back so thin it seemed he could easily snap at any moment, like a toothpick - good memories were tied to that love-ballad - none of which he could recall right now other then the fact that Miller was clearly hallucinating something up ahead of him - his sense of tone and musical talent was always a bit off, but damn if the man wasn't trying, leaving Jacob uncertain if his friend was sobbing or giggling as he hummed on weakly, unable to see his face and decipher an expression - maybe it was better that way, would make this easier for the both of them - Jacob always kept on bullet extra in his hand-gun - they were instructed to do so in the off-chance they were captured by the Wahhabi or the Mujaheddin fundamentalist paramilitary terrorist forces in the area - a sure way out of interrogation, torture and a long, painful death - one pull of the trigger and it's all over - Miller wouldn't even know what hit him and honestly, that was the least Jacob could give him now after all they've been through together - a quick, merciful death in this situation was his testament of love and fondness, and goddammit, he couldn't give anything other then that. If he could, he would've - outside of giving his weakness a clear purpose. At least Miller wouldn't die alone. He was here with him.

 

 

 

He and the wolves.

 

 

 

_-" - can make the world seem bright -"-_

 

 

 

He quietly responded to Miller's tune to make him at least partially happy and pulled the trigger.  
The echo of the gunshot deafening him on the spot, like a shriek.  
And Miller fell dead, a clean cap in the head from behind.  
Jacob could just stand there, contemplating what he's just done.  
Pulling out a hunting knife and already vivisecting the body parts in his head.  
He decided to open his chest horizontally with a long cut and start with the heart itself.

 

 

 

It was still warm when he finally pulled it out and held it in his hands - it was pure and beautiful, just like his friend was.

 

 

 

When he's finally arrived at base a few days later, at early dawn, the night still mingling with the first breaking of days in a haze of purple and scarlet, with the first rising of the sun in the Eastern sky like he just conquered Mecca and Medina, his fellow comrades looked at him like he was a ghost emerging from the desert, a mere blip on the horizon they nearly shot down if it wasn't for his uniform and markings - a ghost they didn't expect to encounter again - a blast from the past - he sauntered into the med-bay in large, loud strides, barely caring for discretion, discipline or politeness at this point, leaving a long line of sandy footprints and mud in his wake, practically collapsing on the first mattress available, letting the nurses and the doctors run around frantically, administering him with whatever they had to, check for concussions, trauma signs, point a bright light into his eyes, but there was none to be found - nothing major - except for a possible heatstroke, extreme exhaustion and undernourishment - he could taste the putrid bile in his mouth even then, when they attached him to all those cords and feeding apparatuses, monitoring his life-signs - acerbic, tasting of iron - he's feasted on Miller's blood and ate his flesh, digested it, shat it out, and then eat some more to reach this point like a savage trying to adsorb the life-strength of a captured enemy, and even know could feel as if there were two hearts beating in his chest - one which was his own, and another phantom one which left a peculiar echo in his ears - but he assumed that was just the after-effect of what the past few weeks put him through, comforting himself only with the thoughts of Joseph and Jacob, swearing he saw an image of whatever deity guided him here manifesting on the slopes of red sand to telling him to keep walking. He was no Bedouin, surely. No native middle-eastern nomad. No wolf. But he could attempt at being a God.

 

 

 

His superiors appeared at his bedside to question him that day - all uniformed and dignified.  
Like a pack of vultures out to drag out the truth for their fanciful reports.  
Attempting to discover what happened back there - to him, to Miller.  
He was barely registering, yes - the dunes still on his mind.  
The howling - the wolves he couldn't yet see, yet felt were there.  
Convinced there was nothing - but the abysmal nothingness for him now.  
Just like Lawrence of Arabia, he was tied to the very landscape he traversed.  
That he left an important piece of himself back where his friend's bared bones lay for the scavengers to pick on.  
Able to respond with but one solitary line, more of an oath, a promise to himself and everyone around, as opposed to their inessential curiosity;

 

 

 

_-"I prey never to see the desert again - so hear me God."-_

 

 

 

And Jacob Seed meant it, slowly raising his finger towards the sterile hospital ceiling, as if addressing the creator himself, in person.

And Miller up above, in a soldier's paradise, knowing he'll never earn a spot there alongside him.


End file.
